


Cockblocking

by terminallybored



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dating in Beacon Hills is as horrifying as every other part of the town, Gen, Humor, Poor Life Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallybored/pseuds/terminallybored
Summary: No one in Beacon Hills ever ends up winning in the dating department. Coach Finstock is not the exception to this rule.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 61
Collections: Finstock's Fucked Up Long Weekend 2019





	Cockblocking

The first clue that something is wrong is that Coach is in a good mood. Not for just a day, either. Not on the lead-up to a long weekend, or after they win a big game. A consistent good mood. It’s already day 6. He’s complimented Greenberg’s form, for chrissakes.

It’s that bad.

The second, somehow less obvious clue, is that he looks like he may be dying.

“You feeling okay, Coach?” Stiles asks, setting a bottle of orange juice on his desk.

“Life is damn good, Bilinski,” Coach says, not even a hint of irony in his voice. He frowns at the bottle. “That’s the third one you’ve brought me. You trying to clean out your fridge?” He grabs the bottle and turns it in his hands, checking for an expiration date.

“No,” Stiles says, trying not to sound affronted. “My dad can’t have orange juice. Too high in sugar.”

Coach gives him a Look as he twists the cap off. “Your dad has my sympathies.”

“I’ll let him know that.” Stiles is pleased when that seems to be good enough, and Finstock takes a sip from the bottle. “You been sleeping?”

“Well, not as much as I used to,” Coach says with a laugh. Like, a normal laugh, not a sarcastic one void of actual mirth. Which is what most of Coach’s laughs sound like. “But sometimes a man has to sacrifice sleep for the greater good.”

“What’s the greater good?” Stiles asks.

Coach opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then abruptly closes it again. He usually does that when he remembers at the last second that he’s a teacher. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’m uh… 17, Coach,” Stiles says. “And I took sex ed last year. You taught it. Remember the condom on the goose gourd incident?”

“One day you kids will appreciate that not everything you’re gonna try and play with in life is as aerodynamic as a banana.” Coach takes a longer sip of his juice. “Yes, I have a girlfriend. Happy?”

“Hey, congrats!” Stiles is genuinely happy for him, even if the idea that someone is so genuinely into his lacrosse coach that the guy is starting to look peaky from lack of sleep is… unnerving at best. “Love makes the world go ‘round and all that. Just uh… maybe do some more sleeping too?”

“Bilinski, I’ve had too many years of sleeping plenty,” Finstock scoffs. “I’m more than caught up enough to miss some now.”

“Yeah, that’s… not how sleeping works, Coach,” Stiles says. “Haven’t you also had insomnia like… forever?”

“Go sit down.” Coach tips his head back and drains the bottle of juice, handing it to Stiles once it’s empty. “Recycle that on your way to your seat.”

And since Stiles doesn’t really want to be involved in his Coach’s love life, that’s that. For a little while at least.

* * *

“So… sorry, what are we here to do again?” Isaac asks from where he’s crammed into the back of the Jeep, knees nearly pushed into his chest in the small space.

“We’re cockblocking Coach,” Scott says. He’s sitting quite comfortably in the front seat, because Scott has permanent dibs on shotgun when Stiles is driving.

“No, I get that part. I was trying to make Stiles say it and realize how weird it sounds.” Isaac shifts for a better look into the restaurant. Only Coach is visible from the window, but he’s smiling widely and laughing intermittently at the person sitting across from him.

“Sorry, I can’t be shamed on this,” Stiles says, not taking his eyes off the window. He’s less focused on Coach’s giddy disposition than he is on the way the dark green sports coat hangs off his shoulders.

“Come on, take this seriously, Isaac,” Scott sighs. “Coach is definitely looking rough, y’know? It could be the real thing.”

“It _is_ the real thing,” Stiles insists. “I told you, Lydia started hearing her whispers during Economics class. Coach has started losing weight like he’s got a tapeworm. Obviously his girlfriend is feeding off of him.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, nodding like that makes perfect sense. “Coach is dating a vampire.”

“You don’t lose weight if you lose blood,” Isaac points out. “If you lose too much blood you just die.”

“Can werewolves use holy water?” Stiles asks, ignoring the biology lesson taking place in the car.

Isaac raises an eyebrow. “Are you… asking if it… harms us? Doesn’t holy water hurt demons?”

“Look, don’t make this political and just answer the question,” Stiles huffs, pulling three glass vials from his pocket. “I’m just not giving you spritzer until you confirm that any splash back won’t burn you or something.”

“Werewolves aren’t demonic!” Scott protests.

Isaac reaches into the front seat and snatches one of the vials. “Why do you have holy water in perfume spritzers?” he asks, turning the vial in his hands. Stiles tries to grab it, but Isaac and his long goddamn arms can hold it well out of his reach.

“If that burns you or sends you to hell, I’m telling Derek it’s your own fault,” Stiles huffs. He sighs and hands a vial to Scott as well.

“So what’s the plan?” Scott asks, holding his vial very carefully between two fingers.

Stiles sits up when he sees a female figure passing out of view from the window, a slim hand lingering on Coach’s shoulder as she passes. He kills the Jeep’s engine. “She’s going to the bathroom. We gotta go. Now.”

* * *

It’s a pretty nice place, so Stiles abandons Scott at the hostess stand to make a lengthy and impassioned plea to be allowed to use the bathroom without being a customer. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that Isaac is a little more useful for purposes of possible violence. They slip past while Scott is swearing blind that he’s going to piss himself and into the belly of the restaurant. It’s a white table cloth sort of place. A water-with-floating-fruit type. There’s a guy playing piano in the middle of the floor and all the waiters move around him like a creek parting around a boulder.

It’s not the sort of place Stiles ever expected to ever find his lacrosse coach.

Or to get cornered in the women’s bathroom by a succubus. And by cornered, he means the door opened and a perfectly manicured hand grabbed him and Isaac and hauled them inside like they weighed less than nothing.

“So I have a werewolf and a creepy little boy peeking in on me in the bathroom.” She slams the door shut again and turns the lock. “What am I going to do about that?”

Stiles can see why Coach likes her. Sure, the huge breasts and long legs would make a lot of guys want her, but she’s also tacky. If Coach looks out of place in a green sports coat and tartan bowtie, the leopard-print mini dress that’s two inches short of being decent has to garner even more disapproval from the white tablecloth crowd. The giant, blown-out hair, the pink stiletto heels… she’s the same kind of tacky as Coach.

“Hey, we just wanna talk,” he promises, eyes darting around to pick out what might be useful as a weapon. Bless these high class places for the amount of decoration they stick everywhere. There’s at least four things he can break into sharp pieces if things go sideways. Not that he actually knows if that will harm a succubus.

“I don’t see you talking.” She grabs his chin, pointed pink nails digging into his cheeks as she yanks his face around to look her in the eye. “I see you looking around for things you think are going to help you.”

“I mean, you did just lock us in a confined space with you,” Stiles points out, one hand flailing at the air to try and find Isaac and maybe pat him on the shoulder to calm him down. He can’t see him, he can just hear the growling behind him getting more pissed off. “So that’s kind of a natural reaction.”

“You have ten seconds to start talking.”

“You have five to let him go,” Isaac growls. She turns her head just enough to look at Isaac. Stiles sees her irises wash out in a ghostly silver.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he protests, waving his arms to try and bring the two supernatural creatures down from their Kill modes. “We just want you to break up with our coach.”

She turns back to Stiles. “You what?”

“Coach Finstock. You gotta stop dating him,” Stiles repeats. “You’re killing him.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She drops her hold on Stiles’ jaw as she rolls her eyes. “He’s easily got another 2 weeks left in him.”

“We’d kinda like to keep him for more than two weeks, though. If you don’t mind.”

“Well I _do_ mind,” the succubus snaps. “A girl’s gotta eat, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been feeding off of him for over a week,” Stiles points out, trying to rationalize with this sex demon who has him locked in the bathroom. “It’s gotta be super boring eating the same thing for that long.”

She tilts her head, like she’s considering it. Stiles doubts she really is.

“So what you’re saying is that I should just hurry up and make a big meal out of him so I’ve got something to tide me over while I’m hunting for another one.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “That’s very much not what I’m saying and you know that.”

“Oh, do I-”

A loud cracking sound interrupts them. The succubus turns around just as Isaac is ripping the stone vessel sink off the counter top. She does not have time to duck before he smashes it down over her head. There’s a sick cracking sound and she drops like a rock to the tile floor.

Stiles backs away, horrified. Not at the violence, because that was the whole point of bringing Isaac, but at the goddamn impulsiveness.

“Isaac,” he groans. “How are we supposed to haul a dead body out of this place without being caught??”

Isaac blinks at him, gold eyes turning blue and human and wide, like the thought of what to do next never entered his head. “Uh... I didn’t... can’t we just leave her?”

Stiles sighs and hates that he has to maybe consider that because of a lack of other options. He looks down at the body to try and consider the least-traumatizing way to skip out on a dead body and notices that... the sink shattered. There are shards of glazed stone all over the floor.

And no pool of red.

Stiles opens his mouth to warn Isaac and reaches for him, just as the succubus lurches back up, screeching in rage.

“You little... bastards!” she snarls, staggering to her feet in her pink heels. There’s blood on her forehead, dripping from somewhere within her plumes of hair. Not enough for a serious injury. “I’ll kill you!”

Someone knocks on the door.

“Sweetheart?” Coach’s voice calls through the door, and he knocks again. “Barbie, you okay?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at her. “Barbie? You didn’t even really try, did you?”

“You seem to think he’s way more observant than he is,” she hisses, running her fingers through her hair and adjusting her dress around her boobs before she unlocks the door. “Bobby!” she cries, new panic in her voice. “Bobby, these kids are nuts!”

Stiles blinks when she flings the door open so he and Isaac are on full display. Stiles immediately tucks the shard of sink he was holding behind his back.

“Bilinski! Layhey!” Finstock looks between them, then at the mess on the floor. He wraps an arm around Barbie. “Aw, babe, what happened to your hair?”

“Coach, she’s really dangerous,” Stiles tries.

“I bashed her over the head with that sink and she fucking got back up,” Isaac says, pointing at the pottery shrapnel on the floor. Stiles winces. Not the best way to put that.

Finstock stares at him. “Lahey, did you just admit to trying to kill my girlfriend?”

“Did you hear the part where she got back up after?”

“Hey, hey, we’re all a little upset,” Stiles says, putting out his hands in what’s meant to be a peaceful gesture. Barbie screams and squeezes Coach, shoving her breasts into his chest.

“He was gonna stab me, Bobby!”

Stiles immediately drops his makeshift weapon and glares at Barbie. “Coach, she’s drinking your life force or something! She’s a succubus!”

Coach just furrows his brow at him.

“Sex demon,” Isaac says helpfully.

“Look, I’ll prove it.” Stiles pulls his spritzer out of his pocket. “If she’s not a demon she won’t mind a little holy water, right?”

“Don’t spray things on me, you little hellion!” Barbie cries, slapping the vial away. It cracks open on the tiles, making Stiles swear.

“Isaac, gimme y-”

“Bilinski, how about you don’t spray things on my girlfriend?” Coach says, with far more patience than Stiles knew he had. “Like... for half a second, let’s think about this situation here and maybe... not pursue it?”

“Coach, don’t you wonder why you’re wasting away?” Stiles protests. “You’re gonna be dead in like, 2 weeks!”

“Okay, enough of this.” Coach holds his hand up. “Now could both of you get the hell out of here? If you’re quick, we might all avoid getting a bill for that sink.”

Stiles groans. Time to retreat and regroup. “Fine.”

“Good.” Coach turns and leads Barbie out of the bathroom. Just in time to run into Scott.

“Stiles, I got-”

“Succubus!” Stiles points at Barbie. “Scott, spray her!”

Scott, bless him, does not ask questions. He yanks out his spritz bottle and immediately surrounds both Coach and Barbie in a cloud of mist.

The effect is instant. Barbie rears her head back and hisses deep in her throat. Her eyes do that creepy silvery white-out thing again and her brow morphs into a thick ridge that forms a permanent scowl and casts shadows down over her eyes. Her skin turns pink where she was sprayed.

“You little bastard!” she screeches, taking a swipe too wide with nails that look a lot more like claws now. Still painted pink. Scott ducks under her arm and retreats to join Stiles and Isaac.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Coach catches her arm so she doesn’t take another swipe. “Two of these guys are first line of my lacrosse team. I need them.”

Stiles flails at Barbie’s morphed face. “Coach! She’s a demon!”

“And what did I tell you about spraying things on people?” Coach snaps, grabbing napkins from beside the gaping hole where the sink used to be. He dabs gently at Barbie’s face, even tenderly attending to the crannies between the ridges in her brows. It would be kind of cute if she wasn’t a life-sucking demon. “You okay, Babs?”

“Aw, Bobby…” She leans in and touches her forehead against his. “You’re being sweet on me even when I look like this?”

“Hey, you’re still a knock-out. It’s just like you’ve hit a goth phase, that’s all.”

Barbie swoons and pulls Coach into a kiss. A really long, really gross kiss. Stiles makes a face and Isaac makes a gagging sound.

“Let’s uh… let’s go.” Stiles skirts around Coach and his succubus girlfriend, dragging Scott with him. Isaac follows, also herding Scott ahead of him.

“Uh… please don’t eat our Coach,” Scott calls back over his shoulder as they beat a hasty retreat.

And that’s that. For a little while at least.

* * *

Stiles sighs and sets another bottle of orange juice on Coach’s desk. “Coach.”

“Don’t say a word,” Finstock warns, grabbing the bottle and twisting off the cap. His skin has gone sallow and the circles under his eyes are starting to sink a bit.

“We’ve talked about this, Coach.”

“Everything is fine.”

Stiles just looks at him. “I don’t think she ever stopped like… eating you,” he says. It’s an assumption that there was some sort of arrangement made that did not involve Coach getting his life force sucked dry. At least Stiles hopes so.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” he concedes between long swallows.

“So… maybe you need to do something about that?” Stiles prompts. “Like break up with her?”

“You said I had 2 weeks.” Finstock finishes his juice and screws the cap back on, handing Stiles the empty bottle.

“Yeah, a week ago.”

“Right. So I still have a whole week.”

Stiles just stares at him. “What.”

Coach sighs. “Look, you’ll understand when you’re older, but sometimes the break from crippling loneliness is worth needing an extra cup of coffee in the mornings.”

“How much coffee are you drinking?”

“12 cups,” he says, like he’s not even ashamed. “Still worth it. Let me just have my last week here.”

“Coach, it could end up being your last week on Earth!” Stiles protests.

Finstock rolls his eyes. “Okay, take your dramatics to the theatre department.”

Stiles’ brain is not prepared to deal with this sort of a sense of priorities. He can’t reason with this. He has no bargaining chip when dealing with actual nihilism.

Stiles doesn’t hear the door open behind him, and startles slightly when Danny comes to stand beside him rather than heading for his seat.

“Coach. We’re gonna lose our shot at the quarter finals if you keep sleeping during practice,” he says flatly.

Finstock sits up, more alert than Stiles has seen him in weeks. “Wait, what?”

“You keep missing practice,” Danny repeats. “What do you think happens when you leave Jackson and McCall in charge of a practice session?”

Finstock stares at him. Then lowers his forehead to his hand like a man guilty of sin. “Dammit. How many practices have they just spent bickering?”

“How many have you missed?”

Finstock folds his hands and presses them against his lip for a long minute. The clock ticks. Danny is smart enough to let him process his next move.

Coach sighs deeply, his shoulders falling in defeat. “Danny. I’m gonna be at the next practice. And all of them after that.”

Danny looks slightly unsure of how to deal with the solemnity of that promise. “Uh… great. Thanks, Coach.” He tips his chin to Stiles before heading to his seat.

Stiles looks over his shoulder at Danny. Then back at Coach. He wants to make some comment on life priorities, he really does. But he also doesn’t want to push his luck.

“You’re getting your wish, Bilinski,” Coach sighs. “Go sit down. You little punks better at least make it to the semi-finals.”

Uh.. sure, Coach,” Stiles agrees, saluting him with the empty orange juice bottle. “We owe you one for uh… sticking it out with us.”

Coach just fixes him with a dead stare.

“Semi-finals.”


End file.
